A new kind of Life
From the very moment his eyes opened and he took that first breath, Dean knew something was wrong. It was a gut feeling he couldn't ignore, but mixed among the haze of his vague memories it was something he couldn't quite figure out either. He couldn't remember what had happened that night, but waking in his room to find Crowley watching over him was certainly unsettling. He pulled himself into a sitting position and that's when he noticed that he was clutching the First Blade as if he were holding onto his life. His mind was racing, flashing moments of a confrontation with Metatron he could almost recall but none of it was clear enough to make any sense. He didn't know why the First Blade was tucked in his tight grip or why the Mark of Cain was searing in his flesh, but the reservations he'd held against it were gone and now he couldn't deny how right that weapon felt in his hand.
He studied the blade carefully, his thoughts drifting off to the time he'd spent in Hell once he'd accepted the offer to torture souls in order to stop the torturing of his own. The power and control he'd felt then, is what he was feeling right now. It not only felt right but natural and pure, like he'd finally found what he'd been searching for his entire life. For the first time ever he was comfortable in his own skin, not an ounce of guilt or doubt eating away at his core. Dean set the blade down beside him as he passed his legs over the edge of his bed, pausing as he looked up to catch Crowley's eyes. For a second he could have sworn he'd seen the King of Hell's true face but in the blink of an eye it was gone.
"How are you feeling Dean?" Crowley asked softly. "What are you feeling?"
Before Dean could say a word, his breath suddenly caught in the back of his throat. Pain spread from his chest like a fire and he soon found himself struggling to breath, each attempt made to inhale met with a tightness unlike anything he'd ever felt before. Gagging on the blood he suddenly started coughing up, he dropped down to his knees and hunched over, gasping for breath and watching helplessly as an alarming amount of blood pooled on the floor in front of him.
"Well that's graceful." Crowley cooed, watching as the young hunter finally caught his breath. "Though I suppose that's what happens when you get stabbed in the chest, blood does tend to gather in the lungs. "
Dean swallowed hard, cringing at the taste of his own blood as he looked up to catch Crowley's eyes. "Stabbed in the chest?" He blurted, his voice coarse and raw. His gaze drifted down to the pool of blood on the floor in front of him as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, Crowley's words now circling in his head. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Don't you remember?" Crowley quietly asked. "You took an angel blade to the chest, that's why you just coughed up a Pint of your own blood." He explained as he pointed down. "You're only breathing out of habbit anyway, out of instinct."
Dean brought a hand up to his chest, his fingers tracing the slashed fabric of both his shirt and his flesh as memories of the night started coming back to him. The confrontation with Metatron, the beating that followed, the First Blade falling from his grip, the angel's blade plunging into his chest, the look on Sam's face, the last breath he took... How in the world could he have forgotten getting stabbed in the chest?
"Dean I truly am sorry that it came to this." Crowley started pausing as Dean looked up, the confusion clearly visible on his face. "I didn't realize bearing the mark would unleash such a darkness in you, that you would be unable to control the blade's power or suppress its need for bloodshed."
Dean's eyes narrowed as all the pieces started falling into place. "That wound was fatal, wasn't it?" He asked, pulling himself up off the floor. "I died tonight, didn't I?" He continued, his tone of voice low. When he didn't get a reply he took a step forward, closing the little distance there was between him and the King of Hell. "What did you do to me you son of a bitch!"
"I did what I had to, made the best of a bad situation." Crowley replied simply.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Dean growled.
"Your body wasn't strong enough to contain the mark's power, that's why you felt so terrible when you weren't out there hacking things to bits with it." Crowley was quick to explain. "Just like Cain, you might have been willing to accept death rather than become the killer the mark wanted you to be... But just like him, the mark didn't quite let go." He paused for only a moment as he watched the other man's eyes drift down to the thick scar on his forearm. "Tell me Dean, without all the emotional baggage attached to your humanity, don't you enjoy the freedom? It may take a bit of time to adapt but believe me when I tell you that you will, and in the end I know you'll enjoy every second."
"Adapt to what? What are you talking about?"
"I think you already know the answer that." Crowley replied, a smirk creeping up to the corner of his lips. "You'll have to excuse me but there's an angry, distraught Moose summoning me down in the dungeon right now. Probably wants to make some kind of deal to bring you back, the Winchester way of course. Can't wait to see the look on his face when I tell him the good news."
With the snap of his fingers The King of Hell was gone, leaving Dean alone in his bedroom to mull over the conversation they'd just had. Though he knew exactly what Crowley had been talking about, he still needed proof. He made his way over to the small sink, grabbing his flask of Holy Water from the dresser along the way. He hesitated for only a moment before uncapping the flask and pulling up his sleeve. He'd had Holy water thrown in his face on more than one occasion, but never before had it affected him like this. It stung the moment it touched his skin and scalded his flesh as it trailed down his arm, giving him the proof he needed that this was indeed for real. He swore under his breath as he set the flask down and leaned heavily against the sink, reaching up to wipe away the steam that had condensed on the mirror in front of him.
That's when Dean first caught a glimpse of his demonic black eyes. There was a time in his life when being a demon was much worse than being dead, a time long ago where those void black eyes staring back at him would have been the subject of nightmares. But things had changed throughout the years, he'd changed and after everything he'd been through, his demonic reflection didn't bother him one bit. What Sam would have to say about it crossed his mind for only a moment. He knew his younger brother wouldn't be as willing as he was to accept this 'new kind of life'. After all, demons had been responsible for so much of what they'd been through. From their Mother's death to the vengeful path their Father had dragged them down, demons had been at the center of it all. Dean knew being one of them should have bothered him, but it didn't and he just didn't care what Sam or even Cas would have to say about it.
Dean straightened out, the smile creeping up from the corner of his lips. Being a demon wasn't all that bad he thought to himself as his black eyes fluttered back to green. Because as a hunter without a conscious, he would be the best if not most dangerous of them all.